


Why we fight

by rivkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eight crazy nights, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/pseuds/rivkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt from kiezh: unexpectedly slipping into a D/s dynamic.  Note: this is my version of "unexpectedly."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why we fight

“Cas,” Dean said, with his usual demanding tone, as if Castiel had appeared at his summons rather than on his own terms.

“No,” Castiel said, and waved his hand to take Dean’s voice before Dean could begin to bluster. “You require much, but you offer little in return, Dean. Why is that?” On the other plane of existence, impossibly distant and yet pressed against his skin, Castiel’s wings fanned and settled, hiding him from interruption by his siblings.

Dean was rubbing at his throat and making ever more exaggerated gestures, eyes wide and furious. Castiel reached out, celestial intent turned actual if not tangible, and determined that Sam was at the local library, surrounded by books and not likely to return any time soon. This dingy little room (no more unclean than any human construction to his eyes) would be an appropriate forum for their long-delayed conversation.

“Do you believe that you have given me so much that I owe you? Or do you believe that my rescuing you from Hell has created some further obligation?” Castiel ignored Dean’s pantomime. “Admittedly, you were misused in the plot to release Lucifer, and I accept some responsibility for that, but I believe we have gone well past redressing my involvement. So the question remains: why do you expect me to do your bidding?”

Dean had stopped struggling and was watching Castiel, wary now, shoulders tensed as if he could even reach a weapon that might harm an angel.

“Are you ready to answer?” Castiel asked warningly.

Dean nodded, and Castiel raised his hand, signalling that he’d returned Dean’s voice.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I thought, you know, we saved the world together, we’re friends—”

Dean’s voice was trailing off uncertainly even before Castiel did him the favor of interrupting. “Are we? Are we friends, Dean?”

Dean gazed over Castiel’s shoulder. “I—I wouldn’t know. I’ve never really had a friend.”

“Your self-pity no longer fascinates me,” Castiel told him.

Dean’s mouth twitched at that. “Yeah, me neither. But it’s true, okay? I thought—you and me, we’ve been through stuff. And you—so why _do_ you keep helping us?”

Castiel stepped forward, close enough that he would only have to reach out with the arm of his human form. “I keep helping _you_ , Dean. I have come to realize that I do it because I—desire that which is human in you.”

Dean’s brows drew close together, then he smirked again. “What, you want to be a real boy? I’m not sure I’m such a great—”

He reached out and stopped Dean’s useless words with the press of his fingers, no power but the physical. Dean’s mouth was not as soft as it looked, dry and a little chapped. “You are deliberately obtuse. Occasionally it is charming, but do not pretend now.”

Dean’s lips moved soundlessly against his fingertips. The sensation was delicate, and engrossing.

“Take off your clothes,” Castiel said.

There was a moment when Dean might have resisted. For all his obedience, there was a streak of rebellion running through him, a vein so deep that it might never be mined out, like a ribbon of gold twined throughout his bloodied soul. Castiel thought that, though it was paradoxical, it was that resistance that made Dean so very good at following orders. He suspected that it had something to do with free will, that Dean could construe his submission as something voluntary and therefore chosen.

The moment passed, and Dean began to strip. He alternated between smugness—confident that he knew what Castiel wanted from him, as so many in the past had wanted—and uncertainty, as if he did not know what to expect from Castiel in particular. The skin revealed by the removal of his clothes was pale, untouched by sun. Nearly as unscarred as when Castiel had decanted him, new-remade, back into the Earth. Castiel could feel the Enochian on his ribs, a certain psychic blankness, and if he hadn’t been accustomed to it he would have found it uncanny. As it was, the sensation was just another part of the contradictions that made up _Dean_ , the empty vessel and the human overfull with life, angelic language scrawled white on his bones and human runes black on his skin.

“Aren’t you gonna join the party?” Dean asked, thinking he was hiding his nervousness, but Castiel ignored him, choosing instead to circle around Dean. Dean’s back stiffened and he obviously had to fight instinct to let Castiel get behind him. Watching Dean struggle made Castiel’s own body react. This, he knew, was why the Nephilim were created, this thrill of power, this call of the human form. Of course, he and Dean would make no Nephilim together, and that, too, was both disappointing and reassuring.

When Castiel returned to his initial position, Dean was shaking, almost invisibly. He was also semi-erect and making no moves to cover himself. Dean hadn’t shaved his face that morning, Castiel realized, imagining the blade close to Dean’s skin, so different than how Dean had been holding the razor when Castiel had first approached him in Hell. Before Castiel had given thought to rebellion, before he’d lost his faith in God, before he’d learned that so many of his brothers did not think they had any responsibility as stewards of Creation. Bitter fruit, all. _The man gave it to me, and I ate._

“On your knees,” Castiel instructed. Dean’s full-body shudder was a sensation as powerful as being hit across the face. Castiel tasted the blood of his human form and realized that he’d bitten down, all unknowing.

Dean dropped down without any of his usual grace. Castiel enjoyed watching him obey. Perhaps—

“Crawl to me.” His fists had clenched; Castiel forced them to relax.

Dean made a choked-off noise. Castiel briefly considered how he might sound with Castiel’s hands around his neck. Later, possibly.

Dean crawled badly, not sure whether he should be on all fours or just using his knees. Castiel was indifferent, and Dean didn’t have far to go. He stopped just shy of Castiel’s body, not daring to touch, and Castiel nodded his approval.

“Now my belt,” he rasped.

Dean reached out, then hesitated. When he looked up through lowered lashes, Castiel wondered how many people Dean had bent to his will through such measures.

But Dean was not teasing. “Jimmy—he’s gone?” he asked. For some reason, this gesture of concern for Castiel’s form made Castiel’s physical being pulse with something he could only call tenderness, except that there was nothing soft about it.

“Jimmy Novak is no more,” he agreed. “This is only a replica of a template. The belt, Dean.”

Dean’s hands were quick and clever, hands he’d rebuilt and then watched touch guns and books and the wheel of the Impala, now so close to his manifested skin.

“Suck me,” he said. Dean flushed. He made no move to comply, though neither did he move away. Castiel frowned. “You are naked and kneeling before me,” he pointed out. “Resistance now would be most ludicrous. Or do you wish me to punish you for noncompliance?”

Dean closed his eyes and reached down to press his own erection to his stomach, sighing out a breath. Castiel thought that he could enjoy exploring all the various sensations, including pain, with Dean, but he would prefer to retain that as an option for later. Now—“I told you to suck me.”

He could see Dean’s desire to make some small distancing remark—‘never should have let you watch porn,’ most likely—but instead Dean swallowed and reached for Castiel’s zipper.

Dean’s mouth was excruciatingly pleasurable, hot and wet and distracting. Dean made noises, grunts and smacking sounds, breathing heavily through his nose. He was sloppy, shoving himself forward, reaching up to grab Castiel’s hips. There was nothing comparable in Castiel’s experience of transcendence; it was wholly human, wholly concentrated in itself. No wonder humans fell so easily into solipsism and anthropomorphism.

Without intending to do so, he’d thrown his head back. His hands reached down and found Dean’s hair, too short to hold but thrillingly prickly against his fingers. Dean was louder in response, shaking—

“No,” Castiel told him sharply, and Dean groaned around Castiel’s cock and brought his hand back to brace against Castiel’s thigh. This, then, was the thrill of obedience from a human. Created to do otherwise, to stand apart from the angels, yet submitting; beautiful as only the imperfect and impermanent could be. But also specifically _Dean_ \--Castiel remembered Dean’s shoulders, slumped on a park bench; Dean’s fearful face when his demon-killing knife did nothing to Castiel’s host; Dean’s flesh bruising under his fists.

The orgasm was raw and unexpected, pulsing through him like the shock of entering a vessel, only a thousand times more concentrated. Dean swallowed readily, until Castiel pushed him away.

Dean stared up at him, lips shining and flushed with blood. His eyes were shocked-wide and ocean-green. Part of Castiel wanted to tear him apart, consume him—anything to get closer to all that inchoate need.

“Now,” he rasped. “Now you can touch yourself.”

Dean turned his head, something like shame darkening his features, but he complied. He was rough with himself, as Castiel should have expected.

He didn’t take long to spill, filling his hand and dripping down to worsen the condition of the carpet.

“Very good,” Castiel said, because he at least would not deny the obedient their just rewards.

For some reason, Dean’s head dipped further at that, flush hot all the way down his neck. With a grimace, he wiped his hand on the floor. “What, uh,” he said. “What was that?”

Dean Winchester was no virgin by the time he’d lived fourteen years, nor was his experience with other men delayed much beyond that, so Castiel didn’t bother with the obvious answer. “I informed you that I am not winning the war in Heaven,” he said, rearranging his clothes with a twitch of his will.

“Yeah, but—” Dean rose to his feet, his nakedness forgotten. “Wait, if this was some last night on Earth thing—”

Castiel shook his head. “No, Dean. Not yet,” he corrected himself, because Dean should know the full truth. “In fact, I won the most recent battle. But if my time is limited, then I want—” how strange, these words, and yet they were at the core of who he had become—“to have something that is mine. I want to have you. Not your body—” cutting off Dean’s automatic self-defense—“though I do find it pleasing. I want you.”

Dean, Castiel knew, would remain suspicious that anyone, angel or human, could want the man rather than the body. But Dean could act as if he believed, and then his acts could produce faith.

“Cas,” Dean said, helpless. “I don’t—It’s not.” He took a breath. “Sam,” he said, which was worth ten paragraphs he’d never be able to say if given eons to compose them.

Castiel nodded. “You are not your devotion to your brother. I am asking for the rest of you.”

Dean looked very young, then. “You really think there’s that much of me left?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and this patience came easily, unlike so many things after his belief in his Father had dissipated. He held out his hand. “I am asking, Dean.” He hoped that Dean would understand: Castiel was trying to offer a choice, as no one else had. “I am asking because it’s what I want.”

Dean took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he reached out. Their fingertips brushed, then their hands clasped. Castiel pulled him closer and reached with his other hand to touch Dean’s face.

“Is there gonna be more of this kinky shit?” Dean asked, his voice only shaking slightly. “Because I could really—”

“If there is,” Castiel told him, buoyant, “you’ll do it. And you’ll like it.”

Dean swallowed. Castiel let his fingers trace down, over Dean’s throat, enjoying the rise and fall, the haste in the blood that made Dean’s breath erratic.

“Mine,” Castiel repeated, liking the shape of the word. He, too, could make and unmake. “Say it.”

Dean’s entire body tightened. Castiel wondered if he had pushed too far, too fast. But there was no certainty of tomorrow, and he had asked only what he desired. “Yours,” Dean said, heat and a confused gratitude in his eyes.

Dean kissed him then, a presumption Castiel was all too willing to allow, leaning down as he tugged Castiel even closer. He fit their mouths together as if they were made just for this.

This small triumph would sustain him, Castiel was certain, through the grinding battles yet to come. Dean had battles of his own to fight, for Sam and most likely with Sam, though Castiel had determined to allow Dean to make his own decisions about that.

In the meantime, Castiel intended to explore every inch of the territory Dean had conceded to him. “Perhaps another handprint,” he mused, breaking the kiss, and Dean shuddered. But he grabbed Castiel’s tie and pulled him backwards towards the bed, so Castiel didn’t think he opposed the idea in any way that mattered.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Why We Fight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/445243) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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